


A Commander's Burden

by SpangleBangle



Series: Thominho Week 2015 [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan, The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crossover, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attack on Titan Crossover, Day 2 - AU/Historical Era, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Secret Relationship, Thominho Week, Thominho Week 2015, Where Grievers is another name for Titans, mentions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:32:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5037559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpangleBangle/pseuds/SpangleBangle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My fill for Day 2 (AU/Historical Era) of Thominho Week :) I cheated a little and went for a crossover au set in a semi-historical society, ft. Commander Minho Park of the Survey Corps. I may develop this beyond a oneshot at some point.</p>
<p>It was just another day, another scouting mission. And while they had always known it was a possibility, the cold reality is almost too much to bear. A Commander can never allow his personal feelings to colour his judgement. Never.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Commander's Burden

Minho watched the yard below from the relative privacy of his office, trying to pretend he wasn’t watching each member of the returning squad with bated breath, counting heads and bodies and horses. In the back of his mind he was tallying resources lost and conserved, a cold number count to be given inky blood, detailing their recent losses of personnel, equipment and horseflesh. Which would need to be sent inland to Sina, requesting – begging, really – for more supplies and money. He’d be lucky to get even a tenth of that request, even if Commander Ein agreed.

He forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat and watched the last few horses trot exhaustedly through the gates. He watched as the resident Squad Leaders and their teams took control of the vague chaos, herding the wounded to the medical barracks, others taking the dead away for cleaning, grooms taking the horses, friends and lovers of the returned embracing. Nothing too showy or personal, of course. This was the military after all. It warmed him to see their little chaste reunions, even if the pressure in his chest was building with each face scanned and dismissed.

_Where was their Squad Leader?_

He swept his gaze over the yard again while keeping an impassive face, in case any of the soldiers happened to look up and see him watching. The windowsill creaked under the pressure of his grip.

_Surely not. Not him._

He turned at the smart knock on his door, stood behind his desk and took a deep breath.

“Enter,” He called.

A tall young man entered and tapped out a crisp salute, fist thudding like a drum against his ribs. “Commander Park.”

Minho nodded respectfully to him, feeling the weight of the bolo around his neck like a noose. “Please sit, Squad Leader Franklin.”

Benjamin nodded to him and sat. The formalities performed, Minho gave his friend a tight, controlled smile. It was all he could manage, and probably seemed more like a grimace disguised in politeness. But Benjamin had known him for too long to take offence, and his brows scrunched in sympathy.

“I’ve just been debriefing that squad,” Benjamin said in a tone of trepidation. Minho quickly assessed his body language – normally, if there were good news, Benjamin would be much more relaxed. He might have an ankle crossed over his knee, or leaning back, or perhaps leaning forwards in excitement, hands on Minho’s desk. But he was sitting almost rigidly at the edge of his seat, as if feeling he would be standing again soon, either to offer comfort to his friend or running after him out the door. He seemed tense, for all that it wasn’t his squad that had just returned at least fifteen fewer than had set out.

Minho looked down at his desk for a moment, collecting his thoughts and preparing for the worst. Then he met Benjamin’s eyes, cool and calm as the façade demanded.

“Tell me, Ben.”

“They were ranging out as required, but ran into the path of a squad of Grievers, much larger than usual. The soldiers say there were at least fifteen, all over twenty meters tall and very fast. Thom— Squad Leader Edis called for evasive manoeuvres, judging they were vastly outnumbered and couldn’t fight.” Benjamin paused and swallowed, watching Minho with concern. Minho was sure his face had paled from the sickly feeling in his stomach, but kept his expression calm and neutral. “The squad scattered as is routine. The soldiers say that the majority of soldiers who did not report at the rendezvous point have been accounted for as dead, their bodies retrieved where possible. Except – except Squad Leader Edis. He’s missing.”

“And presumed dead.” Minho was vaguely surprised by the even tone of his voice, as if the pronouncement meant nothing.

“Yes, Commander. His soldiers say that no one saw him attacked or – killed. But they believe he became isolated from the others, and that if he were alive or unhurt, he would have joined them at the rendezvous. I’m sorry, Minho.”

Minho closed his eyes, taking just a moment for himself while his face and body remained statue-still. There was a scream building somewhere inside him, the hideous urge to wreak violence that he must always tightly control, in danger of spilling. He could imagine punching the wall until his knuckles broke, upturning his desk and shredding his paper, running to his horse to go and find Thomas, screaming out his rage and grief and vengeance upon the filthy creatures that controlled their every waking day.

He imagined it all, indulging the fiction as he knew he could never act on it, then took a slow breath. Once it was expelled from his chest, he opened his eyes.

“Thank you, Squad Leader Franklin. Please announce to the remaining squad members they will be temporarily redistributed between yourself, Squad Leader Agnes and Squad Leader Tubman until Thom— Edis’ replacement can be found.” His voice was smooth and cold, lacking the raw edge of emotion that was bleeding in his mind. “Could you please interview the remaining soldiers as to who Squad Leader Edis had in mind for that position.”

“Yes, Commander,” Benjamin said quietly, forming another salute. His face was creased in concern but he gave voice to none. “I’ll organise the memorial service, with your permission.”

For a moment, Minho couldn’t bring himself to speak. But these things happened, happened every day in the Survey Corps, and he had expected this from the start. He nodded and quietly cleared his throat. “I imagine Teresa will want to organise that, when she knows. Confer with her.”

“Of course. Would you like me to tell Teresa and Harriet?”

Minho shook his head, a restrained motion between two fixed points. Nothing like the wildness lurking under his breastbone. “No, thank you, Ben. That’s my responsibility. Call them in when you leave, if you please.”

Benjamin took that as the polite dismissal it was, and stood. He hesitated, and seemed about to offer more sympathy – Minho raised a hand in a clean, finite motion.

“Please don’t, Ben,” Minho forestalled him, his voice closer to emotion than at any point during that meeting in a slight unsteadiness, no more than a half-audible tremble. “Not right now.”

Benjamin nodded in understanding, snapped out another salute, and walked away, the clack of his boots like a receding heartbeat, fading with each futile pulse.

The rest of the day felt swathed in grey, devoid of feeling or sensation. Minho refused to allow his grief and pain to show, and somehow made it through giving the news to Teresa and Harriet. Teresa wept, but silently and motionlessly, the tears on her cheeks the only indication of the distress mirrored in Minho’s heart. She was as strong and self-disciplined as Minho himself, perhaps more for never allowing her feelings to colour her professional relationship, and he could only admire her for it. And when the initial shock had faded, she had dried her cheeks with sharp efficiency, eyes clear and skin pale. Harriet had bowed her head briefly, but then she had not been as close with Thomas as Teresa and Minho.

After that meeting, Minho had given the news personally to the young groom Charles, Thomas’ younger brother. The boy had nodded, said he’d already known when he saw the squad arriving. He’d smiled, thanked Minho for telling him personally, and walked out with all the self-composure of a veteran. It was only when he was out of sight of Minho’s office, but not out of hearing, that he broke down into fragmented, heart-rending sobs. Minho had closed his eyes against the sound, fighting the sting and clench in his throat as his heart begged to release its grief.

But he had not allowed it. He was the Commander of the Survey Corps, and there was work to be done.

He made it through the day as he always did after a squad returned – walking among the survivors, talking to the wounded, spending a moment with the dead to acknowledge their ultimate sacrifice for humanity. He somehow managed a speech, listing the names of the dead and their achievements. He returned to his office, and the never-ending piles of requisition forms, correspondence, and general running of the Corps.

He managed to reply to a letter from Albert, asking if Minho would be attending the annual military ball in a month’s time.

_I will of course be attending,_ he penned. _I would never miss such an important event, especially the chance to talk with our noble families about their current contributions to the Corps’ efforts._ He looked at that line critically, wondering whether it was politic to include in correspondence that would likely be opened, read and re-sealed at least three time before it came to Albert. Perhaps his grief was making him incautious, but he dipped his pen instead of reaching for the blotter. _I’m sorry to inform you that you will be unable to at last make the acquaintance of my second in command, Squad Leader Edis. As I write this, he is presumed dead in the line of service. Please pass my regards to your own right hand Lieutenant Isaacs, and I look forward to meeting him and of course yourself and Garrison Commander Galilei at the ball. Regards, Commander M. Park, Survey Corps._

He sprinkled sand on the ink to dry it, then quickly folded and sealed it with a blob of heated wax before he could reconsider his words or read them again. He carefully addressed the letter with directions for the Military Police Commander Ein, and placed it on the pile for sending in the morning.

He spent the night alone, rationing his grief by the salt on his pillow.

The next morning he was dressing himself and readying for the day when an almighty racket began at the gates of the compound. He couldn’t make out the words, but soon there were many voices yelling the same thing, and he heard a commotion at the gatehouse. He frowned at the breach of discipline and quickly finished dressing, knowing he would need to reprimand those involved. He was pulling on his jacket when he heard running boot-steps approaching his door. Benjamin burst in with hardly a knock, looking wild around the eyes.

“Minho,” He gasped. “It’s Thomas. He’s alive.”

Then they were running, and be damned with professional calm. “They said – he limped up – to the gates – this morning,” Ben panted as they clattered through the halls and yard to the medical barracks.

Minho saw him immediately, would recognise the back of his head in a crowd any day. The medics were swarming around him, and as he watched he saw them laying his 3DMG to the side and cutting away his clothes, tossing the bloody rags to the side for burning. Minho could feel the scream building and was vaguely aware of Benjamin’s arms around him, keeping him in place at a distance.

The head medic, Jeff, spotted Minho and came over, hashing a vague salute that smeared blood on his chest. “Commander. He’s severely wounded – looks like blade and wire lacerations, as well as – bites.”

“Will he live?” Minho asked, eyes never leaving what he could see of Thomas through the press of medics, Thomas’ limp hand hanging off the table.

Jeff nodded, though his brow was creased. “He should. He made it all the way back on foot, despite his injuries. But I cannot say how long until he returns to service. If ever. We may…” Jeff sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We may have to amputate, depending on the severity of bites on one arm.”

Minho nodded tightly. “Do what you can.”

That evening, Minho was allowed to sit with him. The medics had put up some screens for privacy, and as Minho took Thomas’ limp hand in his own, he surveyed Thomas’ injuries. Under the blanket he was near-swaddled in bandages. From the report, Minho surmised that Thomas had been cornered by the Grievers, and snared himself in his wires in his attempts to escape through the trees. One arm had been mangled in a Griever’s mouth. Minho shuddered to think of the filth on those teeth, already festering in Thomas’ arm when he collapsed at the gatehouse. He swallowed and cast his eyes over the ominous emptiness on Thomas’ other side, the abrupt gap under the blanket after his shoulder joint.

He held Thomas’ remaining hand tightly in both his own. Such an injury was the end of Thomas’ career in the Corps, at least as an active Squad Leader. Minho had already talked to his current non-active staff, and there would be a position for Thomas as an advisor and courier, if he chose. Minho was simply glad he was alive.

After some time, Thomas stirred. His eyes opened heavily, pupils wide with poppymilk. “Minho,” he breathed.

“I’m here, Thomas,” Minho whispered back, a trembling smile on his lips and eyes full. “I’m here.”

“I got myself in trouble, didn’t I,” Thomas said, huffing out a painful laugh.

“Like always, slinthead.” Minho lifted Thomas’ hand and kissed over his fingers slowly.

“I’m so sorry,” Thomas croaked.

Minho didn’t reply, simply bent to kissing as much of Thomas’ hand as possible, though his skin was wet with Minho’s relieved tears.


End file.
